


Found in the Doss House

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Series, origins story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is inspired by "The Abominable Bride." It grows out of two things--the discussion in the first sequence in the jet, when both Mycroft and Sherlock are recalling Mycroft saving Sherlock wherever he landed, including doss houses. The second is the sense of long-term partnership between Lestrade and Mycroft demonstrated in the graveside dream, in which it is clear that, whatever else is true, the two men are PARTNERS in looking after Sherlock, and know each other well.</p><p>So--this is a pre-Mystrade story of first meetings, reflecting both bits of TAB. It's set approximately five years before Study in Pink, and Sherlock's about 29... Mycroft's about 36, Lestrade's about 40 and married...and not yet a DI.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found in the Doss House

They found the boy—man—when the girl who oversaw the doss house panicked and called him in as dead, killed by their supplier. “Poisoned,” she’d whimpered. “Shook and jerked and then ‘e were dead.” Then she’d hung up her cheap mobile and disappeared into the streets, and they never did find her. Instead Lestrade came along with his DI to see what could be seen, along with a team of paramedics sent more in the spirit of “cover all bases” than out of any actual hope they’d save the vic. Lestrade, a DS at the time, pointed out that in a doss no doubt there would be one or two who could use a bit of a medical hand. DI Dawson countered that those fit to leave would scramble the minute they realized what was going on, and the rest seldom needed more medical help than time to sleep it off—and a treatment to end addiction that didn’t exist and probably never would.

They were all surprised to get to the place only to find the bastard was alive, for a rather chancy definition of “living.” He was sprawled on an old deck chair with a blanket over him, and he shook and shook and shook… The head of the paramedic team rolled his eyelids back, touched here, prodded there, visibly going into overdrive as she worked. She swore, and set her people to buzzing like bees, prepping the man and slipping needles in his already needle-tracked, skeletal arms.

“Filthy” muttered DC Blandings. She wrinkled her nose and looked at the vic, and then, to avoid the judgemental reaction brewing, she looked around the doss house. The judgement hit. Her nose crinkled, her upper lip pulled back in ape disgust. “Stinking hole. Freaks. We ought to just burn them down.”

“They’ll only find another place,” Lestrade pointed out. “Chase ‘em out of one den, they’ll only look up another.”

Blandings looked at him, her eyes cold as shark eyes. “Not the way I’d do it,” she said. “Ever pour petrol down a rat’s den?”

Lestrade shuddered. “Gotta be illegal. RSPCA get on your arse, or something.”

Her eyes never warmed. “Nobody cares about rats. Not that much.”

As if timed to contradict her claim, a man burst into the gutted room of the doss house. Lestrade had little sense of him, beyond being an obvious toff—suit, tie, clean white shirt, hair neat, shoes polished. Too nice for this place. Lestrade had seen plenty of friends and relations come to find their missing and their dead, but most showed up in jeans and tees, or off-the-rack suits like his own poly-cotton blend, with limited claim to style. This man wore the kind of bespoke old-style class that announced itself from streets away.

“Whitehall cockroach,” DI Dawson murmured. He sniffed as the man forced his way forward, exerting some sort of invisible leverage that won him a place at the side of the deck chair and the disheveled vic. “Petty, jumped-up clerk.” He turned away, preparing to gather his team and leave. With no one dead he had no case…at least by his reckoning.

“The list,” the new man was saying, eyes burning and intense. “You’ll want the list.”

The head of the paramedic team was too busy to focus, snapping orders at her team. The vic still shook, and shook, just short of seizure.  The new man was in the way, hands searching for pockets in the baggy clothes the vic wore. Lestrade could see the paramedic chief was about to have him hauled out of her work zone. Something instinctive made him raise his voice over the chatter and murmur of the team.

“What list, mister?”

“He’ll have a list of what he took,” the new man returned. He didn’t shout, but somehow concentrated his voice and aimed it out so it carried the distance between them. “He always does. He promised. They’ll need it to decide treatment.”

The paramedic chief paused, skeptical but suddenly aware of the new man as something more than an nuisance. “List?”

“He promised,” the man said, not looking up as he rifled the vic’s pockets. “It’s the one promise he keeps,” he added, voice suddenly bitter.

“Relative?” the paramedic asked, suddenly kinder.

“Brother.”

She nodded to herself, then said, more gently still, “I have to get him out of here, now. We’ll check his clothes for the list, and thanks for telling us. But sometimes…once they’re stoned they forget things. Even promises…”

The new man froze, eyes shutting reflexively against what everyone there knew were tears. His lips tightened, then worked, biting back too much—hurt and anger and sobs and sarcasm and rage and…

Lestrade moved around the little group, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Here—let ‘er take the lad to hospital. We’ll stay here and look-see if he dropped it, right? Make ourselves useful that way.”

The new man nodded.

Lestrade looked at the straight back, the neat auburn hair combed sleek and smooth. “What’s his name? So they can look ‘im up?”

“Sherlock,” the man husked, wearily. He reached reflexively into a pocket, and drew out a pen and a card case. He slipped a card out, and scrawled. “Sherlock Holmes. I’m Mycroft Holmes. My contact information is here. And here’s his name and his National Health information.”

Lestrade noted he didn’t so much as pause as he wrote down the ID number. If the vic was the junkie, the new man was the caretaker. It remained to be seen if he was an enabler, a blame-monkey, or one of the poor bastards caught between, trying to do what was right and never quite sure. Junkies did that to the people around them. Lestrade, having alcoholics in his past and his social set, knew how it worked. He managed to draw the other man back and away from the deck chair, making room as the team pulled in the gurney.

“One, two, three…” The paramedic team gathered, and lifted in a smooth swoop—then started swearing as the vic responded to the gravitational shifts by going into the convulsions he’d threatened from the moment they’d all come in. Lestrade dug his fingers in the brother’s upper arm, gripping past fine wool, digging fingertips into unexpectedly strong biceps below.

“Hold on, hold on, let ‘em work…”

“He’s…” Holmes swore. “We need the list.”

“It may not help,” Lestrade said…but before he could continue DI Dawson materialized at his elbow.

“We’re out of here, DS Lestrade. It’s the National Health’s problem, now.”

“Not if it’s a poison attempt,” Lestrade snapped before he could think. “That’s Serious Crimes. Our division.”

Dawson snorted. “Junkies OD,” he said, as though that explained everything. “We’ve got important work.” His inflection made it quite clear that he, much like DC Blandings, would be happy enough to see the vic solve all question of what the state should do with him by dying now, and saving them all future problems.

Lestrade could feel the brother stiffen. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at his superior officer. “This is th’ vic—the man’s brother,” he said, then stumbled, trying to bring the odd name back. “Mmm..Mike?..” he trailed off, glancing at the younger man.

“Mycroft,” Holmes snapped, anger not aimed at Lestrade but at Dawson. “Mycroft Holmes. I’m with the Foreign Office. Your officer was saying my brother was poisoned?” He sounded like an irked cat, voice a controlled, civil growl, metaphorical tail twitching irritably.

“Stupid girl,” Dawson said with a shrug. He looked around the now-empty room, abandoned by everyone but the vic, the paramedic team sweating over him, and what was left of the Serious Crimes team. “Panicked, that’s all. Decided their dealer had provided the…your brother…with bad junk.” His voice was flat and uncompromising.

“We still should do a site check,” Lestrade said, unsure why this was bothering him the way it was, but trusting his instinctive sense that cutting corners on this case was a mistake. Not just because Mycroft Holmes (?!?!) of the Foreign Office was miffed and on the warpath for his little brother. Something felt…wrong. Layers of wrong. “I can stay and check for evidence,” he volunteered.

Dawson met his eyes, cold and dispassionate. Slowly, warily, he said, “Vice isn’t our division, son.”

Lestrade shrugged. “No. But—poison is. Until we’re sure, we need to secure the site. Just in case. Bad policy to hand over before it’s confirmed, sir.”

Dawson considered, turning it over in his mind. At last he nodded. “You need anyone on it with you?”

“No, sir. We need to register with the NHS that we’ve got an interest, so they get back to us on the vi…the lad. Let them know to test for poison as well as just junk. But…” he glanced around the doss house. “I may learn something here. I won’t learn a lot. Too many people in and out, too little security. Still, better I take the time and do it right.”

“Very well, Lestrade. I’ll cut you free for detached duty until you’ve got confirmation or cleared it as just another junkie ODing. I’ll have Blandings call into the NHS for you.” He glanced at the brother again, this time with a near-apologetic mildness. “Sorry, sir, but we all have our jobs to do. My job is to make sure we don’t deal with mission-drift. Not every junkie is a case for Serious Crimes.”

“Of course not.” Lestrade kept his face blank, but inside he thought a martini as dry as Holmes’ voice wasn’t called a martini—it was called “gin.” “I thank you for your sympathy and support.”

God, even Dawson flinched at that. Irony… with a cutting edge.

“Yes, sir. Lestrade, be sure to give Mr….Holmes?”

“Yes. Holmes.”

“Give Mr. Holmes what help you can, right?”

“I’d been planning on questioning him in any case,” Lestrade said.

It took nearly a half-hour before the place was clear, though. Only when the vic was stabilized, the gurney at last wheeled out, the paramedic team gone, the cops following after a cursory review of the “crime scene,” were Lestrade and Holmes left to consider their situation.

“Poison?” Holmes asked, voice contained—but not relaxed in any sense of the word.

“That’s what the girl running the doss thought,” Lestrade said. “Thought her dealer topped the junk off with something.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Can’t imagine a dealer taking out a paying customer on purpose.  Not your average junkie, that is… Most are more harmless than not. At least so far as a dealer cares.” He began the slow pace of the floor, looking for clues, for evidence. Not expecting to find any.

“You don’t know my brother,” Holmes said, and this time his voice was a rueful blend of irony and regret. “He…makes enemies.” He glanced around, then asked, “What are we looking for? Besides the list.”

“There really is a list?”

“Mmmm. I made him promise the first time I found him in a place like this.” He walked forward, eyes on the floor. “He doesn’t appreciate it…but he has kept his word.” He pointed to an empty condom on the floor. “There.”

“Eww…”

“Unused for its usual intention. May contain traces of…substances. Finger prints.”

“Hmm.” Lestrade leaned down and gingerly picked up the limp, pale sprawl. He risked picking the neck open a bit. “All right…your point. Some kind of residue inside.”

“They’re commonly used to carry various things.”

“And you know why?” Lestrade couldn’t hold back the sarcasm. He was a copper—he didn’t need the lecture.

“Let’s just say that various duties of my office demand I be familiar with criminal activities of specific subclasses of humanity.”

Lestrade risked a narrow glance at the other man. Mycroft…what a name. And what was his brother’s name again? He couldn’t remember, but it was something awkward and horrible. Their parents must have been mad. At least this one could pass as “Mike.”

The man was worth considering. Lestrade, who’d never drawn overly rigid lines in the sand regarding “sexy,” evaluated him through doubled lenses. Copper and cruiser both approved of what they saw…and made whispered comments about what more they detected.

Gay. Both said that outright and rather loudly. Not a swanny, poncy, flamboyant gay, but the quiet, civil gay of the professional or the academic: unhidden, announced, but with class and style and even a touch of humor. As though every choice said, “Yes, fine, I’m gay—your point? It hardly takes a genius to deduce.” Even more obvious was the man’s sense of himself as intelligent. He held himself, presented himself, as bright. There was not so much as a trace of Columbo in his persona. If he was intending to be underestimated, then his own opinion of his brain-power must be gargantuan.

Class was a different matter—which in class conscious England was worth noticing. This man cared about his sexuality and his intelligence, and certainly wore the uniform of the posh bastard. He did not, however, show the little tells of a man affronted at being forced to associate with his social inferiors. He hadn’t twitched at the working-class Estuary accents of the police or the paramedics, nor restricted his conversation to the one person on the team—the paramedic chief—whose verbal style was a cut above, sounding explicitly college-educated professional class. So—a man to whom brains were brains, and nothing else much mattered.

Lestrade felt a grin come to life, and fought it back. After all, Holmes had no other ally right now. Of course he treated Lestrade well.

They completed a first walk of the open floor of the room, finding much trash and clutter but few other clues—and no list. Without needing to discuss, both men targeted the deck chair, each squatting at one side.

There was a ugly, smelly, limp nest of blankets. Between them they unraveled the mess, sorting each layer from the next and shaking out the fabric, then tossing them to the floor. It wasn’t worth bothering to fold them or sort them—they were trash, not even worth washing. They smelled; there was a layer of greasy residue soaked into every fiber.

“Be sure to stop at the chemist’s for a couple bottles of Hedrin on the way home,” Lestrade said, having experience in the field. “That and a nit comb. Use ‘em morning and evening for the next week or so, just to be sure you’re clear.”

Mycroft grunted, a tone that suggested resigned familiarity with the technique. “I wish you’d been with me the first time I found him,” he said, quietly. “Teak,” he said, then, looking at the now naked deck chair. “Well-made. The pride of someone’s back garden once. Fit only for burning, now. If Sherlock weren’t so thin it would have collapsed under him, I suspect. And God alone knows what’s in every grain and pore. No sign of the list, though.

“Mmmm.” Lestrade began a careful examination by touch, fingers prying into every join in the wood. Halfway down he grunted satisfaction, finding the folded wedge shoved tightly between the underside of a slat and the primary frame. “Here we go,” he said, unfolding it to see a string of medications written in what started as a neat hand, and ended in a mad but still legible graphite scrawl. “Has it been lost before with his clothes?”

Mycroft blushed in a way that suggested he’d once delivered an unearned scold. “Yes.”

“He was trying to make sure you’d still be able to recover it.” He handed the limp, creased paper over the deck chair.

Mycroft took it and began reading the scribble.

“You’re a doctor?”

“No. I have made it a matter of duty to learn about this, though.” He frowned. “I find Sherlock’s convulsions unexpected. Not—standard.”

“Ok. Then we go in to the A&E, see how your lad’s doing, and hand in the condom and the list for consideration. Right?”

“After I call ahead. I find that I get so much better cooperation when I call in advance under the aegis of my office…” He reached into a pocket and pulled out the most expensive, elegant mobile Lestrade had ever seen. A second later he was in contact with someone at the hospital, and was drawling in a reedy, obnoxiously UC voice that “Mr. Holmes of the Foreign Office” was coming in to consult over the health of his brother and was bringing in evidence for testing. At a gesture from Lestrade he added that the “evidence” was police evidence registered with the Met, and had to be tracked properly for legal purposes.

Lestrade found himself ready to worship the man. He’d even preserved Lestrade’s chain of evidence! God almighty, what it might be like to work with this man regularly! Even in his relatively short career Lestrade had come to appreciate the precious rarity of unadulterated competence, and whatever else was true of this new stranger, he oozed competence like a honeycomb oozed honey.

“Give you a ride over to the A&E?”

Holmes glanced at him, and gave a sudden, sunlight smile. “That would be welcome. I had to take a taxi over. Police car?”

“Nah. My boss drives that. I just come over in my own, I’m afraid. Easier if I get sent out on side errands, yeah?”

“Never mind. Someday we will both be set up for better things,” Holmes said, that sunny smile still sparkling, humor glinting in the blue eyes. “Me for the chauffeured Jaguar.”

‘Ooooh, lookit you, with your plans and your schemes,” Lestrade said, grinning back. “Me, I’ll be lucky to make it to DI and get Met transport assigned.”

“Oh, I think you’ll rise higher than that,” Holmes said, casually, following Lestrade out of the old deserted department store that held the doss house. They clattered down cast-iron stairs together. “You’ve already made DS, and judging by the latitude you’re allowed I’d suspect DI is not far behind. From there it’s mainly a matter of how you want to spend your time. DCI is really the last chance you’ll have for leg-work.”

“Then that’s where I’ll quit climbing,” Lestrade said, popping the passenger street door, then swinging around to his own side. The car was a mess, of course. Food wrappers from a busy life in which meals were often eaten in traffic. His wife’s gym bag in the back seat, and her makeup in the well between the two front seats. He scrambled to straighten the rear-view mirror, which she’d skewed around that morning to put on her makeup before he dropped her off at the school. Mycroft gingerly cleared away her back-up purse from the foot well and looked warily at the passenger seat. He picked away several strands of long, blonde hair.

“Married,” Lestrade said, feeling apologetic and not entirely sure why.

“Indubitably,” Mycroft said. “That was clear from your ring.” He sat, face smooth and calm, and waited while Lestrade settled and pulled out into traffic.

“She’s a school teacher,” Lestrade said.

“Yes. You have a sticker for the school car park on the windscreen.”

“Yeah. Of course. Sharp, you—you notice things.”

“As do you.”

“My job, though,” Lestrade pointed out. “Trained to do it.”

“And you do it quite well.”

“Not that well.”

“You’ve already determined I’m more than a mere clerk.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Aye, well. Foreign Office. And you’ve got clout that doesn’t go with mere office drab.” He shot a glance over, and then said quietly, “Not sure what branch of the secret service you’re tied to, though. MI5? MI6?”

Holmes gave a little shrug. “I’m an analyst, these days. Not in the field much. I’m not so much one or another, these days, but more on a project-by-project basis. Whoever needs me this week.”

“Well and truly run after, then. Sounds nice.”

“It has its moments.”

They fell into comfortable silence, Lestrade navigating London’s never easy streets. As they approached the hospital Lestrade started looking for places to pull in.

“No—don’t bother. My card will get us parking in the reserved section,” Holmes said. He reached in a pocket and found a bit of card stock. Lestrade couldn’t read it, but could see it included a phone number and and a Foreign Office ID. Holmes hung it off Lestrade’s mirror.

It was the easiest parking experience Lestrade had in years, including at his own place.

They cut through the lobby and up the lift, Mycroft on his mobile phone apparently determining his brother’s location and status without effort. Lestrade added in the new information and jumped him yet another level in the secret services. Apparently he was someone’s wonder-boy. From what he’d seen, though, he suspected Holmes had earned his perks. Then they were in the intensive care unit, with a scrub-clad nurse approaching, face sober.

The murmurs exchanged were not heartening, even as more personnel arrived. Lestrade handed off the bagged condom to a lab worker, explaining yet again that it was Met evidence. There was signing of papers, exchanges of identification. In the background Mycroft was grilling the medical staff. And then, poof, they were gone, and the two men stood alone in the waiting room.

“Well, then,” Lestrade said. “How’s the lad?”

Holmes looked at his toes. “Not yet stable. Convulsions—atypical. More in keeping with strychnine poisoning than overdose.”

“They’ve got the list?”

“Yes. The condom?”

“Yes.”

Both were silent, shuffling in place.

“Can you see the lad yet?”

“No. They’re working over him.”

“Do you need to call your people?”

Holmes' face grew tighter, older, more bleached and weary. “I suppose I should. I daresay they’re at the Highland Games now. They’re competing in the Highland Dancing.”

“So that’s where the red hair comes from.” Lestrade smiled, looking at the vivid russet cap that neatly topped his new companion.

Holmes shrugged. “I am a mutt—as are most Britons.”

Lestrade snorted. “Me, I’m near-pure Celt, me. Mum and Da are both Somerset born, though their people both moved to London early. Just nice seeing a good strong ginger.”

He was both amused and a little flattered to see Holmes’ hand reflexively reach up to stroke his own hair self-consciously, before quickly shoving his fist into his trousers pocket. He blushed, ducked his head, and then ostentatiously pulled out that Rich-Man’s Toy of a smart phone again. “I’d best call them,” he said, and added, forlornly, “There’s some question whether they ought to try to make it down here while there’s still time.”

Lestrade reached out, grabbing his arm before he could start the call. “No. Don’t.” When Holmes met his eyes, he said, soberly, “By the time they’re on the plane, it will be settled one way or another. Next few hours are going to decide things before they can even get packed and on a flight south. Let them enjoy their trip, yeah? Once you know better what’s happening, that’s when to call. Not sooner.”

Holmes seemed to deflate, worry and depression sucking the energy out of him. “But—he may be dying.”

“Is he likely to wake up before he does?”

Holmes shook his head. For a foxy, sharp-featured man he managed the mournful demeanor of a bloodhound remarkably well.

“Well, then,” Lestrade said. “Really, I’m telling you from long practice—better to be able to call with something certain. Even with death. It would be different if he were awake, or likely to be for a few minutes your folks could use to say goodbye. But that’s not happening, is it?”

The younger man shook his head, and looked away, bleak and grieving. “I should have protected him.”

“Hard to protect ‘em from themselves.”

“I knew he was going to do it again.”

“Doesn’t take a rocket scientist,” Lestrade saod. “Junkies do that.”

“He says he’s a user.” Holmes walked away, then, to stand looking out the window of the waiting room. It was raining, having started sometime while they dealt with the hospital staff.

“I’ve got to call in,” Lestrade said. “But it’s getting time for me to go off duty soon. The wife’s off to pottery lessons tonight. Why not come out wi’ me to a curry house down from here?”

Holmes turned, eyes blank. “What?”

“Come out wi’ me for curry. I’ve got nothin’ to do tonight anyway. Won’t know about the lad, or the contents of the condom, or anything my own team dug up till tomorrow morning. Might as well eat and then wait on your boy.”

Holmes’ forehead wrinkled in confusion. “You don’t have to.”

“Know I don’t. Thought I would anyway.”

He watched as the man ticked through the reasoning—confused, unsure of himself. “Why?”

“Because,” Lestrade said. “I like you. And I know what it’s like to wait.”

Holmes’ mouth opened, closed, opened again, then shut one more time. His eyes were worried. “People don’t like me,” he said at last.

Lestrade suspected they might not. All those brains, all that sharp-toff trimming, all that focus, and that touchy edge of sarcasm that flashed in and out. But Lestrade had seen the man’s face when he barged into the doss house, looking for his brother. And he liked smart people. He understood them, at least somewhat.

“I’m told they make a good vindaloo,” he said. “Me, I’m dull. Tikka masala and naan. But it’s a good place.”

Holmes closed his eyes, and thought, then opened his eyes again—surprising, innocent, shy eyes. “I’d like that,” he said.

“We can bring back spiced tea and wait till word on your boy’s in.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No reason not to.”

“Very well,” Holmes said, and turned away—but not quickly enough to hide the stunned ache in his eyes…an ache that left Lestrade aching in return.  It surprised him. He was a copper; he had a copper’s reservations about people. He was good at gaining people’s trust, but it seldom went the other way. With him, trust was slow. The sudden candle-flame of affection he felt for this man was unheard of…but there was no getting past it—he liked the odd, clever man. Something about him answered something in Lestrade—a loneliness Lestrade himself had not known he felt. A sense of companionship he would not have ever thought to express.

The curry was good. The conversation odd. They had nothing in common, or as close to nothing as made no difference.  They were country mouse and city mouse. Lestrade had attended Queen Mary's, in a secure, red-brick practical career-track program aimed at policing. Holmes had spent a short but insanely successful period at Cambridge, in a double-major in linguistics and mathematics, somehow linking the two in some form of encryption—and then been drafted by some group so pointedly not-named that Lestrade knew instantly is was the Secret Service. Lestrade was fluent in the history of rock music, Holmes better with jazz. Holmes was a certified, unquestioned genius; Lestrade was smart, but even he admitted it was a matter of slow, careful plodding, gathering his evidence a piece at a time, thinking it through with cautious reservations until he was sure he’d narrowed the options. “I should work more like that,” Holmes said. “I’m afraid it’s a flaw I share with Sherlock. We both think we’re rationalists, but as often as not it’s the moment of click—of ah-ha.” He’d ducked his head over his combo dinner, taking tiny, tiny little tastes of the raita, not out of distaste or caution, but with the sensual control of someone who’s found something new and delightful to savor. “I keep telling Sherlock we’ve got to wait until we’ve ruled out the impossible. But sometimes the impossible announces itself as the right answer rather...imperiously.”

Lestrade chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Wish you were on my team las’ month. Got one that proved out to be the one impossible answer—but we took forever before we even looked at it. Could have used someone to hear the call of the imperious.” He cradled his Kingfisher between his palms, looking at the familiar bowl of chicken tikka masala and pile of naan on his tali. “Bit of a drudge, me.”

Holmes raised his eyes and studied the other man, for the first time showing no sign of reserve or shyness interfering with his patient, penetrating gaze. After a time he nodded with calm conviction. “I doubt you are entirely lacking the spark of sudden discovery—but I am certain you are not stupid or dull. I suspect you are better at logic than pattern recognition. They are not the same skill—and in truly complex problems raw logic is the stronger skill. Sometimes the only way to reach a solution is to crunch the numbers.” There was a respect in his voice that shattered Lestrade—truly shattered him.

“You’re really not ‘aving me on, are you?” he said, amazed.

“Not my style,” Holmes said. “Not to say I dislike a bit of…misdirection.” Something wild and sweet and mischievous bloomed in his pale eyes, and he risked a small smile. “But I reserve gulling my associates for rare instances of office politics that can’t be evaded. You…you do not fall into that despised category of people I must flatter out of necessity.” There was something then—in his eyes, his voice, his posture, that said the fact amazed him fully as much as it amazed Lestrade to be admired for his plodding sort of brains.

They looked at each other, mutually amazed, then bashfully dove back into their meal, as much to escape the lingering awe as out of valid appreciation of their meal.

On the drive back to the hospital, Mycroft said, soberly. “I’m gay. So you know.”

“I thought maybe.” Lestrade paused, and added, “I’m married,” knowing it wasn’t quite the same thing—and certain Holmes knew that.

“I saw the ring. And you said your wife is at pottery class tonight?”

“Oh, aye. That’s right, I did. She teaches,” he said. “At school.”

“Yes. That’s the way of it, usually.” Holmes’ voice was wry, amused, but not unkind, though Lestrade wanted to kick himself for stating something so obvious. “You have no children yet?”

“You can tell?”

“Your car bears evidence of many things—but not of offspring.”

“Yeah. None so far.”

“You wish for children?”

“Wife does.”

“Not you?”

Lestrade frowned, and kept his eye on traffic. “Don’t know, really,” he finally admitted. “Never been a Da. Not sure I wouldn’t be bollocks at it, yeah? Spend a lot of time workin’. Take risks.”

“To the right child you might be a perfect choice. Steady. Logical. Fair. Brave.”

“And the wrong ‘un would wish she’d never been born.”

“I doubt that.”

“What about you,” Lestrade said, intentionally turning the conversation back against the other man. “You want kids?”

Holmes squirmed in his seat. “I believe I’ve covered that, haven’t I? I’m gay.”

“Not stopping people these days. You can adopt. You can pay for a surrogate.”

Holmes sniffed. “I believe my responsibility for Sherlock’s been a salutary lesson in my lack of nurturing skills.” He sighed, and looked upward as they pulled into the car park, Holmes’ parking tag still swinging from Lestrade’s mirror. “I wonder if he’s any better.”

“We’ll see.” Lestrade felt the odd, sympathetic tug at his heart hearing the worry and grief in Holmes’ voice.

They made their way up to the waiting room together, then Lestrade hunted up tea for each of them and went searching for someone to update them on the brother’s condition.

“Him,” said the little floor nurse, scowling at her ledger at reception.

“Aye, him. He’s awake, then?”

She tightened her mouth. “He’s not resting well.”

“Wha’s that mean, ‘not resting well’? He in any danger?”

“He’s…” she considered, then said, wearily, “Come along. Better you see—it’s alarming, but probably less alarming than trying to explain.”

“Lemme get his brother, first,” Lestrade said. He hurried back to find Mycroft in the secondary waiting area and pulled him up to the main desk. Then the three went down one of the too-bright hallways.

They heard the vic before they could see him—a high, furious wailing, going on and on.

Holmes hunched tight, somehow seeming to huddle even as he kept walking toward the ICU. Outside the room, they looked through the plate glass.

“Bugger-all,” Lestrade breathed, and turned, about to grill the nurse for an explanation. The younger Holmes was rigid in the bed, body tense, heels pressed into the mattress, fists knotted, back arching, face a twisted mask of something—Pain? Rage? Lestrade couldn’t tell. He screamed, though. Before he could comment, the older brother grabbed his elbow, shook his head, and without asking walked into the little room to stand beside the bed.

“Stop that, now, Sherlock. No tantrums.”

You had to have a sharp ear, but Lestrade did. He heard the slight falter before the shriek dropped to a whiny snivel.

“Is ‘e awake, then?” he said, coming into the room.

“No idea,” Holmes said, looking down with drawn features. “He’s quite capable of maintaining a tantrum while still unconscious. I always thought he napped screaming.”

“Handful, your brother.”

“Quite.”

They looked at him.

“He still needs a bath,” Lestrade observed.

“Mmm. But they’ve doused him for vermin.”

“Well, yeah. Hospital. Can’t afford him spreading lice.”

Holmes reached out and stroked his brother’s filthy hair off his brow. It was tender, but Lestrade could see the frustration, and the hurt, and the guilt all blooming on his face. The boy seemed to quiet under the caress, though, no longer tense and arched, but still brooding. He frowned in his sleep. The older brother tried to stroke the crease from between his brows.

“It’s not your fault,” Lestrade said. “I’ve yet to meet anyone bad enough to justify someone else deciding to play this game. And unless you’re the one who dumped the junk in his body…”

Holmes shook his head.

“There, then,” Lestrade said, firmly. “His choice—not yours. The very worst you can claim is ‘contributing factor.’ But the determining factors? They’re all his.”

“I’m supposed to look after him.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Lestrade looked down and frowned. “Doesn’t look it.”

“No. He doesn’t, does he? Forever eighteen…”

There was something so sad in the other man’s voice. Lestrade reflexively slipped a hand onto his shoulder, curling just a little behind his neck—the grip a man gave another man when the shit hit the fan. Holmes turned then, and looked at him, stunned. Complete shock…

Lestrade pulled his hand back.

“Sorry. Sorry—I didn’t mean—“

Holmes blinked, the blushed. “No—no. My fault. I’m just… People don’t…”

“’Course they don’t,” a voice muttered from the bed. “Not worth the wasted sympathy…” The tones and inflection were sullen and mean.

Lestrade glanced down, and took in the boy—man—on the bed. He was red-eyed, beaten, with shadows like bruises under his eyes. There was something in his face—anger, fear, loss, resentment. Some simmering brew of feelings all aimed at the man at the bedside. The younger brother reached up and pushed Mycroft’s hand away from his brow, using the back of his wrist, almost as though he wouldn’t willingly touch his brother’s skin with his hand.

“I made the list,” he growled. “Not satisfied?”

“You were convulsing. We’re worried either you took more than you listed—or someone tried to poison you.”

“Worried? Why? It would solve all your problems. Me dead, and you clearly not at fault. Even you can’t predict all the killers in the world. A man like me makes enemies.”

He sounded smug, then—as though having enemies put him one up on his older brother.

“Sherlock…Please don’t be any more ridiculous than you must be. Enemies are hardly a matter of bragging rights.”

The younger man glowered from under a tumble of curls. “Double standards, brother-mine?”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “That’s different. They’re not precisely my own enemies, Sherlock. More a job hazard.”

“Oh, that’s right. You have job hazards. I have self-destructive behaviors.”

The older brother’s temper wavered, this time, and Mycroft snapped, “And what good are you doing to justify your risks?”

Sherlock smirked. “I figured out who nicked Tam-the-man’s stash last week. Nailed who ratted Abe Rawlston to the coppers yesterday. I do my bit for the good of my community.”

Lestrade felt himself go tense. “You…” He swallowed, then said, barely controlling himself, “Betrize Okeke was found dead in the skip behind the Met.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened…for a moment Lestrade saw fear, and regret. Then he set his face in hard lines and looked away. “Not my doing. I was busy last night.” He smirked an artificial smirk, and glanced at his brother.

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“Ooooh, Sherlock,” the younger man fluted back, then scoffed—the scoff turning to a cough. “Go away, Mike,” he managed between gasping rounds. The machines hooked up to him had picked up his distress, beeping and blipping as he stirred restlessly and tried to clear his lungs. “It’s my life. You have no right.”

“I have a duty.”

“Bugger that…” The boy tried to say something more, but he was choking. Then a nurse was there, shouldering Mycroft aside. Lestrade grabbed his new friend’s elbow and guided him out of the room as the med team hurried in.

“He’s alive,” Lestrade pointed out. “Alive and fighting.”

“Fighting life itself,” Holmes shot back, anger and frustration steeling him. He straightened, gathering himself. One fist swung out in a sideways sweep, the meaty side of the fist connecting with the hospital wall. Lestrade, who’d once been fool enough to punch a wall with his knuckles, noted that even angry the elder brother made sensible choices. “My brother is determined to kill himself.”

“Looks like he’s willing to take people with him,” Lestrade said. “Betrize was one of ours—a good informant. If your boy’s the one who ratted her out, her death’s on his conscience even if he’s not the one who killed her. He might as well be.” He sighed. “She was a good person, Betrize. She wanted to help…and didn’t have much to help with beyond knowing the street better than we ever could. Hooker. Junkie. But she did what she could for us…”

Holmes’ jaw set. “My brother, on the other hand, is far from ‘good.’ Great, sometimes—but not good.”

“He didn’t kill her himself,” Lestrade said. “There’s plenty who’d have done the job. Hell, somewhere out there there’s a person who did do the job. Not that we’ll ever catch him.”

Holmes nodded, pacing along the long empty corridor of the hospital, headed nowhere. Burning off frustration and anger and loss. Then he stopped, and looked at Lestrade, his face still.

“What?”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. Carefully, precisely, he said, “He could.”

“What?” Lestrade was confused, now.

“Sherlock—he could catch the one who killed Betrize. Just like he worked out she was the one ratting to your people. He likes puzzles. He likes to show off. Sherlock can find him, if anyone can.”

The idea was interesting. But—

“He wouldn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

“No. But…” The older brother seemed to retreat into his own thoughts. Cautiously he said, “He might do it to spite me. Or to force my hand.”

“Mmmm?” Lestrade cocked his head. “Sounds like you’re getting sneaky.” The thought amused him…this new, clever man…this Secret Service man…showing his game. Lestrade wanted to see his game…

They walked along in shared silence.

They were still silent an hour later, when Holmes stopped pacing the hospital corridors and veered back to the ICU. There he pinned down his brother’s doctor and proceeded to grill him like a suspect in custody.

“So—he was poisoned.”

“Depends on how you define it. Someone gave him a very controlled dose of strychnine. Not enough to kill, normally.”

“And with the other things he was taking?”

“If it weren’t for his resistance, I wouldn’t bet he’d survive what he took on purpose, much less with the added strychnine load. He’s lucky he made it. It must have been right up to the wire—just under the limit of what he could endure.” The doctor shook his head, ruefully. “He’s a tough nut, your brother. But—try to get him to quit. He’s pushing himself beyond his own limits. I won’t swear he didn’t take any long-term brain damage from this…among other things. His liver can’t love him at this point, or his kidneys. Heart damage. It’s too early to attempt an assessment, but he’s not doing himself any favors.”

Mycroft blinked, an almost reptilian gesture that apparently read as indifference to the doctor, whose face froze in response. Mycroft didn’t bother reassuring him, saying only, “I’ll do what I can, doctor. Did word come back on that condom we turned in for testing?”

“It was the source of the strychnine.”

“Pure?”

“Hell, no. Cut with a neutral saline-glucose blend even before it was watered down.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “You have to send the evidence and a report on the results back to the Met, Special Crimes. DI Dawson’s heading the investigation.”

The doctor gave Lestrade a slightly kinder look—though not by much. “Already done, Constable.”

“Detective Sergeant Lestrade,” Mycroft murmured, then gave the doctor a wry smile. “It’s a matter of rank—you’re insulting him by calling him a mere constable.”

“No insult,” Lestrade said, firmly, then added, “But he’s right. It’s DS Lestrade. I’m Dawson’s second. As for the vic—he say anything to suggest who poisoned him?”

The doctor grimaces. “I’m afraid I’ve given up trying to find out,” he admitted. “He keeps….guessing things…about me. About my staff. We try to ask him questions, he makes rude suggestions about how we spend our time. Our floor supervisor was in tears, and I assure you that she’s a tough old bird. Been around since forever, and until today I’d have sworn nothing could make her cry.”

Mycroft sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s our Sherlock,” he said, wearily. “Can you give any kind of estimate how long until he’s able to be released—at least into rehab?”

The doctor looked unsure. “Days, at least. We had a hard time, even using that list you supplied.”

“Very well. Then I’ll call my parents and tell them to visit here later this week, if that’s all right with you.”

When the consultation was over, Lestrade offered to drive the other man home. “It’s late. No point you having to call a taxi when I’ve got a car.”

“But your wife?”

“Often as not she goes out t’ the pub after, has a pint with the rest of the class.”

Mycroft stopped and looked at him, mouth opening, a comment hovering, waiting to be said.

Lestrade cringed. He knew the question. He asked it himself, every time…and there were so many times…

He was pretty sure he knew the answer. He just didn’t know yet if it mattered. So she cheated…it wasn’t like she was going to saddle him with a bastard. He knew he could trust her for that much. And was it really any skin off his nose? He worked crazy hours. He missed meals. He left her alone. What difference did it make to him if she compensated with a bit of fun outside the lines of their marriage? He trusted her to avoid STDs. As long as she came home to him, why should he care where she wandered between times?

He’d grown up with men and women who were practical. Sailors' wives who knew their men had a woman in every port. Sailors who knew their wives got lonely. Greengrocers who turned a blind eye when their wives did what they could to keep the rent low and the landlord satisfied.

Mycroft didn’t ask, though, and Lestrade was grateful to be spared the need to answer.

They climbed in the car and headed out.

“Who do you think poisoned the boy?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh, I’m betting he poisoned himself,” Holmes said. “He’d call it research. He flatters himself in thinking he could do your job better than you do yourself…then plays Adams Family games to ‘learn’ about chemical dosages and survival factors.” He was grim and unamused. “I’ve tried to point out that the necessary literature has already been assembled and can be looked up. He just says it’s better if he internalizes it. Pun intended, I’m afraid.”

“He poisoned himself….” Lestrade was horrified.

“Oh, I won’t be surprised if he attempt to pin it on someone. He might even attempt to pin it on Betrize Okeke’s killer, now that he knows he brought about her death. He’s not entirely without moral compass.” He sighed, then said again. “Not entirely.”

“But—he poisoned himself. After drugging himself sick…”

“I believe so.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Your point?” Mycroft’s voice was both dry—and exhausted. “DS Lestrade, I have a proposition to make.”

“Mmmm.” He was already guessing where this was going. “He likes to meddle, doesn’t he?”

“He likes to…deduce things. Learn things. Find them out. Rather than let him absolve himself of Betrize Okeke’s death by falsely accusing her killer of poisoning him, I was wondering if, should I make it easy, you would be willing to accept him as a…what do you call it—what she did?”

“Informer?” That was still the polite term. The truth was even coppers thought of them as rats, ratting out their friends.

“Informer would be a start. But if I can arrange for him to be licensed as a civilian investigator, perhaps we can flatter him that he’s more than just a leak. He’s…good at finding things out.”

Lestrade considered. The brat he’d seen was a vicious little hellion. But, then, not everyone could be as sweet as Betrize Okeke…and Betrize was gone. They needed a replacement, and they needed one soon. “I can talk to the people in vice,” he said. “It’s not my division. But—I can probably arrange to be his contact, too. Because there’s already a link.”

He’d be doing it for Mycroft, though. He could already see that, for the other man, this was a ladder his brother might be able to use to climb out of the hell he’d fallen into…and for no reason he entirely understood, he thought he’d like to give the man that.

“I can manage it,” he said, still thinking it through. “You’ll want me to be the one to offer, though, right?”

“Oh, God, yes. If I bring it up he’ll slit his wrists before he'd agree.”

“You’re not exaggerating, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“I may have to use some rough and ready methods to try to keep him in line.”

Holmes gave a sudden, surprising shout of laughter, then said in barely restrained humor, “Oh, good. Justice served. How delicious.”

Lestrade chuckled too, then pulled to a stop in front of the very, very nice old Victorian-era building in Bloomsbury. “You have a flat here?”

“Mmmm. Top storey.”

"Nice!"

“For now. It’s what’s expected of my level in the profession.”

“Not likely to stay at that level long?”

Holmes slid out from the passenger seat, then leaned back in, elbows on the frame of the door. “No. Not for long.”

“Cocky.” Lestrade smiled, taking the sting off. “I’ll go in and recruit your brother later this week.”

“Call me after?” Holmes offered a card with his contact information.

Lestrade took it, fingers brushing the other man’s. “Soon as I have news. It may take a few tries to get it to stick.”

“No doubt. He’s stubborn.”

“We can have curry again and talk.”

Holmes smiled. “I’d like that.”

Lestrade didn’t suggest inviting his new friend back to his some night for dinner with the wife. He already knew, somehow, that he would forever want to keep Holmes separate from his marriage—and his marriage separate from Holmes.

“Well, then,” he said. “Best be off, then. Good meeting you…” he let his voice tail off, leaving the name open.

Holmes smiled, then—a knowing, thoughtful smile, but real. “Mycroft,” he said—and Lestrade knew instantly that there were almost no people who were offered the first name.

He held out his hand. Holmes took it, shook it—and then just gripped it firm.

Neither found words to say more.

Finally, Lestrade said again, “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Lestrade nodded, and slowly pulled away. The fingers of his hand still felt Holmes’ soft palm, his strong grip.

He ached.

He was hard—hard for a man, after years without.

He told himself he’d be taking it home to his wife, where it belonged.

He doubted his wife would see it that way.

He found he didn’t care. She had pottery and the pub after—and whatever else those pastimes hid. He had curry, and companionship—and perhaps a couple of new leads for his work.

He thought of the slim, tall man—the shy eyes. The loyalty to his brother. The commitment to his duties. The brilliance.

He admitted to himself that he was more than half in love.

These things happen, he thought. You deal with them.

And he drove into the night, toward his terraced house in Chiswick. He already knew his future would be better than his past—somehow. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew.


End file.
